Okay
by msllamalover
Summary: Sometimes, it really is okay not to fight, even if it doesn't feel like it. Five of those times for DA members during the war.


Disclaimer: Not mine, of course!

_A/N: Five times it was okay not to fight. I hope you like it._

"_It's okay not to fight"_

Two ever-blue eyes glaring back at her, shining with unwept tears. Torn cheeks, ripped skin; healed. Lips twisted at the corner, mangled. Broken, disgusting. A whole face pieced back together, but the pieces don't quite fit anymore and there are holes, filled in with scars and redness that will never leave her.

She is plagued. A ruined beauty that is all her own. The mirror, once friend, is foe now.

And nothing she does with her magic wand can make it any better. They are cursed wounds. They'll be with her _forever_. She mutters 'Episkey' over and over, jabbing her wand into her cheek, where she feels nothing.

She buys muggle make-up, the best she can find. 'Covers even the most stubborn scars!' the slogan on the packaging promise. They lie, of course they lie. Everyone lies. _You're still pretty! The make-up's working, isn't it?_ The paint-like foundation melts away to nothing to second it touches her wreck of skin. Nothing works.

Her ear is tattered, and the hearing in her left ear is just about shot, but she can still hear someone coming up behind her. It's Dean. He's trying the hardest to make her see what he says he does.

'You're still beautiful, Lav.' His large hands are on her shoulders, warm and comforting. She can see his face him the mirror. She doesn't even have her lovely hair anymore. They had to cut it off to get rid of the blood, and the smell. It's painfully obvious when he stands by her how defeated and how utterly destroyed her beauty is. _He's_ still beautiful. His eyes crinkle at the corners and his wide, dark lips are smooth and unmarred as they smile at her.

'But I'm not, I'm not. Can't you see that?' She sobs a dry sob, no tears spilling. She covers her face with her hands. 'Nothing works. Nothing.'

His hands move from her shoulders to take her hands in his. His finger tips brush her cheeks as he does this, and she can only feel his warmth on one half of her face. He lowers his lips to her neck. 'Can you feel this?'

Shivering, she nods. He moves his lips to the other side of her neck and presses a kiss there too. He looks questioningly at her in the mirror, and she nods again. He pulls her back into him and wraps his arms, hands still linked, around her waist. 'Your heart still beats, just like before.' He kisses her neck again. 'What's inside is still beautiful. It's _more_ beautiful than before. You don't have to fight this battle, love. You don't have to fight against what you can't see anymore. We all still love you for the beauty you'll _always_ have. _I_ still love you.'

She cries for the first time as she buries her ugly face in his chest. She doesn't want to fight anymore. She doesn't.

* * *

Parvati finds Padma on the last step, half on the grass, as she leaves the castle. The battle is reaching it's climax inside and she can already feel the victory, deep in her bones. Harry will beat Voldemort, and there will be time to celebrate later.

_Ha_. A short, painful laugh forces it's way past her bloodied lips. There's not going to be celebration that they had all promised each other in the depths of the dark nights they spent terrified. _It'll be okay, we'll laugh about these times when we're triumphant. The dark days will be forgotten. We'll be happy._

She'll never be happy again. There's no doubt. Her Lavender, her sister, is clutching life in both hands, refusing to let go. But they don't know if she'll live or die. Dean and Seamus are both injured, but they'll survive. Her twin isn't going to survive. She's not a stupid girl and she doesn't need crystal balls or tea leaves to see the future this time.

She sinks to the ground, taking her sister's head in her arms. She's cold. They're both cold, but she's worse. Her body is twitching, like there is an electric current being constantly run through her body, and her eyelids are fluttering, rising and falling. She can feel that she's trying desperately to cling to life, but she's failing. Padma doesn't ever fail, it just isn't how things have worked out in the past. It is a foul, bitter twist that this will be her first failure.

Parvati drops a long, hard kiss to her forehead. Padma's in pain, and she can feel that too. In a voice that isn't her own, she can hear herself whisper, 'Pads, it's okay, if you're hurting. You don't have to fight. I don't want you to hurt anymore. I love you.'

She doesn't know if her sister has heard. She gives no indication either way, but her movements slow and her face is less distorted, like the pain is subsiding, or like she has given in to it. She rests her cheek to her sister's forehead. The life leaves Padma's body and she is limp in her twin's arms. She doesn't die with a smile on her face, like George's twin, but at least she looks peaceful now. Serene. She could almost be sleeping.

She has given up the fight, but it's okay. Parvati has empty years stretching endlessly ahead of her with which to deal with the grief that she'll never get over, not really. At least Padma isn't wounded, aching, hurting. She doesn't know what is was exactly that killed her, which spell, curse, hex. It doesn't matter, because Parvati can't give up her own fight. She thinks briefly, selfishly, that she desperately wants to.

* * *

Long, scarred fingers close around a mug of butterbeer, and he marvels at the way it warms him even after everything they've been through. A war, grief, despair. Desertion, on his part. He's got nothing. No, that's not exactly true. He has family who won't look at him, a fortune whisked away, and the girl he thought he loved untouchable on the other side of a veil that he can't see, only feel.

Because Pansy didn't change sides with him. She wept tears of confusion with him every night, but still her own fingers closed around her wand, drawing pain onto victims who couldn't fight back. It still makes him sick to think of the things she has done.

He stopped them from cursing children when he saw it, he took them to the safety of the friends he sits with now. For they are his friends, even though he can barely convince himself of it. He is in awe of them. They manage to smile and laugh again, and somehow make him do the same, though he isn't sure he ever did them in the first place. They are strong, and he is strong too.

'Another drink?' Neville asks softly, breaking him from his reverie. He looks up and smiles, holding up his hand. There is still a small amount left in the bottle of his mug. 'You sure? Antony's buying.'

Blaise laughs then, because if ever there was someone who was sparing with their money, it was Antony Goldstein. 'In that case,' he smirks, draining his drink. 'I wouldn't want to disappoint.'

'Never.' Neville laughs, but there is sincerity clinging to his words and Blaise doesn't think he's still meaning the butter beer. Neville gestures to Antony that they both want a drink, and their friend scowls, handing over some more coins.

Neville sits between him and Hannah, putting his arm around her easily. Hannah smiles briefly and seems to subconsciously move a little closer to him, but continues her conversation with Ernie. On Blaise's other side sit Michael, Terry and there is a spare seat where Antony is sitting. Susan, Parvati and Ginny are there too. They didn't manage to draw Lavender from her dwelling, still plagued and despondent from the Final Battle. Dean is with her, always with her.

Antony levitates the drink to the table, even managing a tight smile after spending his money on them. 'Don't you think I didn't see you, Zabini, finishing your drink so I'd have to buy you one!'

Blaise smirks, taking his drink. 'I'm sorry,' he replies smoothly. 'I suppose it's the Slytherin in me.'

Terry chuckles, sliding a fresh mug down to him. Two men saunter past, catching the end of the exchange. They don't seem to be able to resist comment. 'Fucking Slytherin murderers, doesn't deserve money spent on him.'

Their table is silenced, the mood changed. Blaise feels cold, right down to the bone. Terry growls, and Michael and Seamus jump up beside him.

'Really, it's okay.' Blaise smiles sadly, looking down into the swirling foam on top of his beer. He isn't surprised. He hears their snide comments more often than the others, but he doesn't fight back. He still feels like he deserves their hatred. The others don't let him get away with it, his self blame. They don't let other people get away with the prejudices either.

'It bloody isn't okay!' Michael says, looking back at him.

The others nod in agreement. Parvati stretches a graceful hand over the table to rest it on his. He has always marvelled at the softness and elegance of her, after she has lost so much. In her smooth voice, she tells him, 'It really isn't, Blaise. You don't deserve it.'

'None of us deserve what's happened to us, but it has!' He exclaims, voice a little louder than he usually lets it get, before it drops back to it's normal silky quietness. 'It's okay not to fight, you know.'

There is a brief, momentary silence before Terry sighs angrily. 'Not this time it isn't, mate. Sorry, but people aren't getting away with this anymore.'

As the three of them go after the men, they pretend to be cross with them, but none of them are. Some things are worth fighting for.

* * *

'Luna, I can see them.' Ginny sighs, wrapping her arm around herself, wishing that she didn't feel so cold in the warm sun. There are goose pimples on her skin and she hasn't been able to get rid of them.

'See what?' Luna asks with a dreamy smile, eyes fixed somewhere in the distance. 'The Nargles? They really are wonderful creatures. Daddy and I are going to make a study of them soon.'

'No, Luna. Not the Nargles.' Luna's gaze changes and her grey, starry eyes are fixed on Ginny's brown ones. 'The Thestrals. They're … they're strange.'

'They are. Fascinating, aren't they?' Luna stands in one graceful motion, making Ginny want to cry. Because she doesn't feel elegant, even less now than before. How can anyone move with grace, when they can see creatures of death? They are everything she has lost. Her brother, her friends. The creatures still live. And she can see them.

It is like a mockery. When she started Hogwarts, she wanted desperately to see the mysterious beings pulling the carriages. Now she'd give anything in the world not to be able to see them. She can't talk to Harry about them. She doesn't want to upset him. She can't talk to anyone else, but Luna doesn't get upset about them. Somehow she still loves them, and Ginny is so in awe of her now. She's always been in awe of her, secretly.

'I - I don't like them. They're ugly, and horrible, and -' She takes a deep breath as Luna cuts her off.

'Ginny, it's okay to be upset.' Luna wraps long, pale arms around her friend, and she feels immediately warmer. 'You don't have to keep fighting now, the battle is over.'

Ginny chokes on a sob, feeling the tears. She gives into them. Because really, she isn't giving in. She's just decided to select her battles a little more carefully from now on. She can afford to, after all.

* * *

A flash of red, violet, green, flying about their heads. People are running, people are falling. Like pieces of a chess game none of them want to play anymore, they take the black pieces as best they can but it isn't easy. The black pieces are looming, bigger and more powerful. They are being crushed under the weight, but they won't give up, won't hide away. They've fought too hard this year to be beaten now.

Neville's movements are quick and easy. His clumsiness and his stiffness seem left behind, deserted when the battle began. He looks around and sees the faces of his friends, but they seem like strangers now. They aren't the kind, funny people he knew from before. Those people would never have fought to kill.

But those people were children. These people are adults, fighting not for themselves, but for those who _are_ still children.

'Alright Nev?' The voice which calls to him is not one of an adult. It is breathless and has a hard edge, but it will always be that of a child to him, and he doesn't want to acknowledge that the voice is here. He glances round, sparing only a second.

'Colin? What're you doing here?'

'Fighting, clearly!' He exclaims, somehow, _somehow_ managing to smile in the face of all this. Neville wants to scream, but the air is already far to thick with screams and cries without him adding to it.

'You don't have to! It's okay.' Neville turns back again and Colin looks at him with disbelief and shock, but he tries again anyway. 'Colin, you don't have to fight. You're underage. Go home, to Dennis. Please, Col.'

Colin's face hardens, determination setting into every inch of him. 'I don't think so, do you Neville? I'm fighting, to the death if it comes down to it. I don't have to, I know that. But I'm going to anyway.'

Neville nods and gives him a small smile. He wonders how many times he will be so completely awestruck by the selfless courage and determination of his friends. Hours later, when he lays Colin down beside Padma and Zach, and all the others they have lost, it occurs to Neville, not for the first time, that bravery isn't a red tie, like they would have had him believe in the beginning. It's yellow and blue and green too, all at once, bound together into a rainbow of glory.

There's a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. They win, but they sacrifice. They weep, but they remember. They fight, even when they don't have to.


End file.
